


A glimpse of halfway down

by Notawriterjustalurker



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Karen Needs a Hug, Nightmares, Post Season 3, Reconciliation, Sick Fic, Smut, They both do, emotional and physical wound tending, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26873080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notawriterjustalurker/pseuds/Notawriterjustalurker
Summary: Karen's used to dreaming about the times that he's saved her... But she's not so used to dreaming about the times that he doesn't.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Comments: 24
Kudos: 32
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. A feeling I know well

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not very good at being serious for prolonged periods of time but here we are because I wanted to write something more angsty/whumpy for Whumptober 😂
> 
> Apologies if I fall down any cliché nightmare/dream rabbitholes, I am absolutely not a psychologist 😂

_It begins just the way it always does._

_She arrives at a familiar place she swears she's never been before. Every window and every alleyway, as recognisably vague as the next._

_Beneath her, painted lines on the tarmac pass by like ghosts. She's alone. And Hell's Kitchen is empty._

_Buildings are stretching high either side; their presence, dark, looming and endless; casting their tall shadows as they curve unnaturally in the sky._

_They lean in as if to share their hushed whispers — trying to coerce her sleepy tongue to move._

_But she does not speak._

_Tonight, there's not a soul around except the body she inhabits like a hollow shell, her knees bending and her feet carrying her forward, weightlessly wading through a city, sleeping._

_There's a crackle of rain on the sidewalk, cool on her skin and rippling like sheets of hammered gold under the streetlights as she passes; glowing like embers that look like they might burst into flames._

_Ahead, the road in front of her fades into nowhere. An amber haze, surrounded by emptiness. She's nothing more than occupying space — both the cause of it, and it's ultimate undoing; a world that doesn't exist until she gets there; until she creates it unwillfully in her mind._

_Time cuts from one place to the next, as if she's closed her eyes and reopened them. The jolt of her body tells her she might have fallen, but the impact isn't enough to wake her._

_She's somewhere warm and dry now, too dark to see her hands in front of her face. There's a smell of mildew; old stone and dust, and when she reaches out, she finds her arms barred by a lifeless surface, cool and slimy to touch._

_She's been here before, she recognises the drum beat that she hears in her ears, the way it fills the stone box with an endless echo, vibrating her chest so hard she fears her bones might shatter._

_But Karen finds no comfort in the familiarity of it._

_Air is starting to feel like a solid, a viscous black mist that only clogs up her lungs further with each breath._

_She seeks him out with her hands, her body. But he's not there; this isn't that kind of dream._

_Doubt sews itself in her mind then, feasts on her memories, her recollection. There's something beneath her; warm and sticky, deepening, filling space at the back of her neck, soaking her hair; muffled sounds in her ears like she's under water._

_There's not much time left, her fingers frantically search for an escape._

_"You'll drown."_

_Karen startles. The voice is much louder in her head than it should be, but it's simultaneously a whisper, enough to disturb the hairs on her cheek._

_She snarls back. Holding fear in her hands and crushing it into dust, forcing out a sound that's ragged — "who are you? Please." She means it as a question but it comes out like begging._

_Nothing._

_Distant voices mutter; police radios fizz, dogs yap and bark._

_A blade of light cracks the ceiling above her, illuminating her in red. Because the liquid filling up at her back is blood._

_She's lying in blood._

_"This isn't real." She half whispers to herself. "Not real. Not real."_

_But a gloved hand is already pulling her upwards into the light, she has no choice but to follow even with her sodden clothes willing her down._

_For a moment she thinks it's him. She answers the silence with his name — "Matt? Is that you?" But her shins scrape the edges of the crypt and she tumbles under the weight of herself, pupils constricting because it's too bright, it's blinding and before she can look up the grounds changed to something else. Her bloody knees are sticking to sheets of paper strewn across carpet. Bodies lying on the ground around her, white shirts opaque with red. She scrambles to her feet to face the figure that swings the door open on its hinges._

_She knows how this ends too._

_In the real world, anyway._

_Jasper Evans will die and her ears will ring for days at the sound of his death._

_But here, now, the man in red is much closer, and instead of a gun, that same gloved hand is vice-like around her chin._

_For a second she fights it, fruitess, because any second from now her feet will leave the ground and he'll choke her — snatch air from her lungs for the final time. But she looks down anyway, her eyelashes casting dagger-like shadows over her cheeks, face to face with glowing red eyes and a smile that's so full of cruelty it looks like it's been carved into ice._

_"Hello Karen."_

_"It's nice to see you again."_

When her eyes snap open she greets the cracks on the ceiling above her bed with relief, and the warm embrace of her room with a sob that turns into an empty laugh, despite the hammering in her chest.

"Okay. You're _okay_.." she breathes, speaking out loud just to anchor herself to reality. "Cool it. Karen. See, just a dream."

_Just a dream._

But how could _just_ a dream do _this_ to her body? Her hands are shaking as she shifts her legs off edge of the bed, sweat drenched and shivering and switches on the bedside lamp.

It's still dark outside, the wind is rattling that one window across the room that never shuts properly; her laptop is still on standby on the floor where she left it, too lazy to put it away after researching late into the night. It's a typical winter morning; early, 5am to be exact, and it's definitely pointless going back to sleep, not that she could now anyway. 

The napkin tucked into her photo holder reminds her what day it is. Carefully she unfolds it; and even though she fears sweat will tear it into useless little pieces, holding in her hands seems to soothe her somehow.

"Big day, Karen. Don't fuck this up." That's the second time she's referred to herself in the third person in the last five minutes, surely not a sign of a day that's going anywhere close to well. And really, _what_ a day to start getting pesky nightmares; when she might actually have to do some work for a change. Not to mention the small problem of working in close proximity to Matt again, and she doesn't really rate her chances of him not picking up on her being off, if she still happens to be feeling _off_ later.

But she folds the napkin back into two and returns it to its rightful place beside her favourite photo of the three of them on St.Patrick's day, inhales deeply and puts one foot in front of the other.

* * *

Over three hours later, and despite her best efforts to stall herself at every turn, when she finds the door to their office at Nelson's Meats locked, she realises she's still managed to arrive too early.

"Just me," she calls out over her shoulder to a member of the Nelson family investigating the sound of her fumbling aimlessly for the correct key. 

"Oh, hey Karen."

"Theo," she says, "morning," catching a glimpse of his scraggly hair at the base of the stairs. He's carrying two sacks of potatoes like they weigh nothing, and for a scrawny guy she's always amazed at the amount of stuff he can heave around, apparently without much of an effort. 

"Early bird and all that?" He gives her a sympathetic look and Karen laughs, feeling a little insincere for faking the smile in her voice.

"Something like that." Her key turns in the lock and she shuffles inside, the pocket of her jacket catching annoyingly on the door handle and yanking her off course. "Shit. Goddammit—"

"Need some help?" Theo's voice is full of that same name brand friendliness that Karen couldn't find irritating if she tried.

"I uh, I think I'm good. Thanks, though."

"Sure," he says, "well uh,.. shout if you need anything, I'm here all day," his voice grows more distant as Karen starts to close the door behind her "...long as it's none of that book stuff." 

And it's pointless replying now that he's nearly out of ear shot, but she smiles and thanks him again anyway.

Now?

 _Caffeine_.

That's the thing that springs to Karen's mind after she dumps her bag and coat, making a beeline for the coffee machine like it's about to solve all her problems. Yesterday's newspaper is spread out over the sideboard, it's covered in sugar granules and splatterings of brown (almost definitely Foggy's mess, not Matt's). She brushes it clean as if she needs to see the headline any clearer than it is.

_'FAKE DAREDEVIL NAMED.'_

_'A man accused of donning a replica suit of Hell's Kitchen's vigilante hero 'Daredevil' while he launched an attack on the New York Bulletin, killing 5, has been named as Benjamin Poindexter — an FBI agent, believed to be on the payroll of recently rearrested crime tycoon, Wilson Fisk.'_

There's a picture of him on it too. A good picture, by all accounts; suited and respectable looking, without the glowing red eyes and the armour she used to associate with safety. 

But that thin, glassy smile. That's still there.

The caption under the photo reads: _'Poindexter's whereabouts are currently unknown and it is unclear when or if he will stand trial.'_

Karen freezes. Her forehead crinkles as she leans in, both her elbows planted as she stoops, her hair forming a dimly lit tent over the pages.

Then suddenly there's something brushing the back of her shoulder, it jolts her into a panic and she turns quickly, nearly knocking a takeout coffee right out of Matt's hands. Luckily for both of them, he not only dodges her onslaught but also manages to plant his thumb over the mouthpiece of each cup.

"Sorry I didn't mean —"

" _Jesus_ , Matt—"

"...Maybe I should have said good morning like a normal person," he says, sounding genuinely apologetic, and she slowly peels her eyes away from where she's holding in her stomach like the fright just nearly disemboweled her.

She sighs as she looks up. That face of his really was problematic.

"It's okay," she says. "I was uh, I was in a world of my own."

Matt purses his lips. "Coffee?" He's holding it out to her cautiously like it was a conscious choice that she nearly just knocked him out, and that given half the chance, she might just do it again. But it tastes so good – the coffee. Way better than whatever budget version she was about to make. She wraps her hands around the warm cup and closes her eyes, and for a second or two she sort of forgets he's still standing there.

"Karen..." Matt's wearing that little crease that's visible between the bridge of his glasses that says he's listening _intently_ ; and his voice has that fragile tone that makes arguing with him nearly impossible. "Is everything okay?" 

It's the worst kind of question a man like Matt could ask. It's one that has almost a million different answers; accepted at any other outlet, except here of course — at Matt Murdock SupersensesLimited where all of them, except, one, points to her being a liar. 

"I'm fine," she sighs, and regrets her choice of words immediately because never in the history of fine has the word fine ever meant anything less than terrible. "I uh, I didn't get much sleep last night." She waves her fingers vaguely over her coffee cup. "Nerves or something I guess," she chuckles briefly, but it's hollow, even to her.

Matt nods, acknowledging her answer with that well mannered expression that she knows is just another mask. Beneath it she can practically see him running his fingers over the files he has on her in his mind's eye, dismissing each one that bears the same label. 

_Bullshit bullshit bullshit._

"What does it say?" He tilts his head towards the newspaper splayed out to the left, no doubt he can hear how the sound reflects differently off paper, or maybe he can smell the chemical tang of freshly printed ink. "It's bothering you." He adds, a little presumptuously.

But who is she kidding. He's right.

"It's nothing." 

"Karen.." he presses, this time he cradles her upper arm in his hand and smooths it down until it rests at her elbow.

"They named Dex," she admits, "I thought they had him in custody. But… I uh.."

Matt nods again, his jaw clenching like maybe he feels slightly stupid for not realising it sooner. "I meant to tell you Karen. I just didn't want you to worry," he says, "me and Foggy are on it. They're keeping things pretty hush hush down at the station these days. Probably just trying to keep the press away. And us. There's not a lot of people left in Hell's Kitchen that can be trusted."

Karen nods, though it's clearly unconvincing.

"Hey.." Matt squeezes her arm again and she gets the feeling that he really wants to touch her in a way that's more than just this.

And truthfully? She'd love him to wrap his arms around her and pull her in close like he used to, to make her feel safe like no one else could. But they're being careful around each other these days; both of them, wounded, in their own ways, and there's a sting that's involved in the clean up that neither one of them can bear the pain of right now. "Everythings going to be okay," Matt says, "promise." His fingers move to leave the smallest caress on her arm. She feels it long after he turns away.

"Where's Foggy?" She asks, changing the subject.

"Downstairs." Matt says, "talking to a _client._." he lingers on the word with an eyebrow raised.

"A client?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

She stutters, "I'm not. It's just..."

"I'm kidding," he chuckles, "I can't believe it either." Karen watches him slip off his suit jacket and hang it over the chair at his desk, albeit a small, very improvised one, then he pauses for a second to listen. "Whoever they are, I think Foggy may be trying to butter them up with free sandwiches."

And she really didn't think she had it in her, but she laughs for the first time today and Matt smiles widely, proudly, like that had been his goal since the moment he'd walked in. 

"Isn't that a little unethical?"

"Legally speaking?" Matt frowns, "mhmm. Yes," he agrees, standing and flattening his tie. "Morally speaking? Well...I'm hardly in a position to comment." His smile seems to shine for a while in her direction and Karen has no choice but to hide behind another sip of coffee.

Thankfully, Foggy bursts through the door with their first client following in tow soon after.

"Buenos Dias!...." He annouces, then pauses, pointing at Matt, "Matt, how do you say lawyers in Spanish again?"

"Abogados."

"Avocados!"

"The best." Matt grins and Karen gestures towards their confused looking client, a stout, bearded man with a cane and a paper bag full of complimentary sandwiches.

"First day," she explains courteously, trying to look professional. And as the three of them disappear into the tiny room together, like she's looking back at a snapshot of a time when things were easier; simpler — Karen thinks that maybe, _maybe_ … this might just be enough to distract her from everything else for now; or at least, until nightfall comes around again.

  
  
  
  



	2. A familiarity in ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got kinda angsty I guess 🤷😂

The day goes by quickly and all at once, like a whirlwind; too many colours passing for her to focus on a moment. 

By 4pm, Karen's already waving her awkward goodbyes at the office, and by 7 she's taxiing back across town from her first and last interview of the day, staring into the half hollow of a whiskey bottle by 9.

Neither her or the night settles in gracefully. Instead, the fading light wraps itself around her neck, coiling like a noose, shadows slithering across the floorboards and shrouding the space around her feet until she curls them up underneath herself, snatches them away from the dark and tucks into a ball on the couch.

When they disappear, when it's finally black outside, her eyes flick down to her laptop screen, bright enough on her knees to make her squint, and she taps away for a while, alone again in the hollow of her apartment; aware that every hour that passes is just another hour closer to sleep that must inevitably come. 

At this point her bed has about the same appeal as a coffin — or a crypt, and she doesn't plan on going there anytime soon, except for maybe later when the whiskey gives her the courage to do it without her noticing. Even then it only takes a text to make her startle, her phone lights up with a buzz on the table next to her — instinct telling her it's just Matt messaging from a burner phone, likely somewhere nearby and listening in; wanting a hand in chasing a lead that'll end with just another bruise on his face tomorrow. But the hairs still prickle on the back of her neck at the fleeting thought that it might not be, her gaze directed knife-sharp towards the windows as they gaze like distant vultures right back at her.

Karen shakes her head.

_Stupid._

But she feels it in her bones that she's not alone, searching for any signs of him, impossible when all she can see is the reflection of her own living room painted in dim blue hues on the glass.

After a few minutes of waiting there's _taptap_ on the window to accent the pounding of her heart, and though she's half been expecting it, she still jolts, drops her shoulders and takes a breath like she's about to dunk her head under water; fingers moving towards the latch before she decides to dwell any longer on the concept.

 _"_ Matt?" Her voice rustles in the stillness, hot breath billowing into the crisp city air.

 _"Matt_?" She whispers again and she watches slightly irritated and slightly relieved as his shadowy figure finally emerges, seeming to assemble out of pieces of the night itself. "Matt…" she sighs for the third time, running her fingers through her hair. "What are you doing here?" She asks, "Are you hurt?" 

Not that she'd be much use if she was.

"I'm fine," he answers. Karen sidesteps as he stoops under the window bottom, planting his heavy boots on her living room rug. "You uh, you said you weren't sleeping so well."

His words disarm her, leaving her standing there in her pajamas without a weapon, too close to the kind of vulnerable that she knows glows like a beacon under his radar senses. "So what, you're checking up on me now?" Karen folds her arms and Matt gives her distant shrug without much explanation. "Because you really don't need to do that."

"I know Karen, I'm sorry. I was just…" he stutters and slides his mask back from his eyes. "It's quiet tonight." His smile is thin, a flicker of concern at the corners of his lips and Karen let's her eyes run over him, a quick analytical glance, just enough to spot how the slick fabric on his right arm is torn and wet as he moves into the electronic glow of her computer screen. 

"Not that quiet," she frowns as she presses into the muscle just below his shoulder. Blood transfers onto her hand, still warm and tacky; she examines how it looks ingrained into the cracks in her fingertips. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing. Just a scratch." 

She tutts dismissively, "wait here." Ignoring the fact that he's smiling as she makes her way to the kitchen to rummage for the first aid box under the sink that she's used maybe once or twice at best. When she returns, switching on a lamp so she can see, she almost laughs at the bizarre sight of him sitting maskless in black on her living room couch.

"Let me." He makes an expression that feels slightly patronising as she gestures for him to remove the offending sleeve. Slowly, he stretches it up, unpeeling himself from inside tight compression pads and Karen's cheeks redden at the sight of his athletic form, shirtless and bruised somewhere where it doesn't belong, naked skin pressed into her favourite fluffy pillow.

"I guess I'm supposed to warn you that this might sting a bit." She opens the first aid box and dons a pair of gloves, generously soaking a cotton wool ball in antiseptic fluid. "Nothing you haven't felt before I'm sure."

Matt tightens his lips, managing to restrain the grin that she's sure he's hiding somewhere underneath. "Yeah, sure," he shrugs, facing ahead so as not to put her off. 

And it comes as a surprise to no one that the hole in Matt's arm a tiny bit worse than a _scratch_ , more of a gouge that's probably just short of needing stitches. She allows herself a second to let her eyes wander before she starts to gently clean the surrounding skin, re-examining the wounds that had been fresh when he'd stripped in front of her that night at the church; now little ribbons of pink, some slightly purplish from the cold, fading to find their home amongst the hundreds of others.

When the cotton becomes saturated with red she dampens a fresh one and carefully moves to work around the wound itself. Goose pimples rise up on his skin but he doesn't react as she swipes over raw flesh several times to dislodge stubborn bits of grit and dried on blood, catching herself thinking about how Matt might interpret pain with all his senses being the way they are; almost causing her to wince in sympathy. 

He breaks the silence with a muted, "Ow." A subtle tease in his voice that tells her he's in good humour tonight at least.

"Alright, nearly done," she giggles, and after applying two closure strips and patting dry she tosses everything into a plastic bag beside her before admiring her handy work. "Right," she says finally, Matt, thanking her with a nod. 

"A woman of many talents, Miss Page."

It's been a while since he called her that.

"All bandages aside, you clearly didn't come here for my nursing skills."

Matt chuckles, "not exactly." He turns his shirt back the right side out and slips it over his head, and Karen's suddenly aware of her own bare skin as she moves to do the same, choosing to clutch a nearby cushion tight into the crease of her lap. 

"So..? Are you gonna tell me what you're actually doing here or what? I take it you need something. About the case?"

"No," he snaps, "no, Karen, it's not that."

"Okay well what then?"

Matt lets out a lengthy sigh and braces himself. "I heard something in your voice today." 

"My _voice?..."_ She gives him a substantial look, already retreating; annoyingly, the exact same way he always does.

"Yeah. Today at the office," Matt confirms and hesitates again. "I didn't like it." He's rubbing his thumb and finger together in a loose fist that's making him look nervous and agitated. "The last time I heard it sound something like that..." 

Karen's lips separate before she pulls them back together with an expression that's guarded.

_Wesley._

Neither of them say it but it makes sense, and she hates that he did, but Matt had known, even way back then that something was wrong after that night. He scootches back in his seat and then hunches forward, planting an elbow on each knee like he's feeling nauseous.

"It's okay. Matt. Go on." She encourages him mainly because watching him trying to communicate is just about the frustrating thing she's ever seen; as heartbreakingly sweet as it is painfully humiliating; like a bandaid she hopes will hurt her less if it's torn from her at breakneck speed.

"I know I'm probably the last person you'd ever want to… to _talk_ to, I guess," he says, "but I don't like the thought of all this, and you, and..." Karen can tell he's fighting to find the right words, if they even exist at all. "I mean, if it's hard…if you're struggling," he breathes in one more time — "I.. just don't want you to feel alone, that's all."

The whole thing hits her stomach like something sour, fermented, bubbling at the base of her throat, threatening to ruin this whole moment because alone was _exactly_ how he'd left her when just a few months ago he'd let her believe he was just another body in the ground.

"I'm not alone Matt," she smiles bitterly, "not _now_."

And it's satisfying to watch his eyes search for the meaning beneath her words as they disappear briefly behind closed lids, the weight of his head pulling his body back so that he's resting defeatedly, fully this time, against the back of the couch. His hand comes up, half reaching out and then drops palm up into the pillows.

"I'm sorry, Karen. I didn't...I didn't mean to."

It carries a weight that she really didn't think it would because she'd really started to believe that the two of them had just glazed over that whole incident, and she hates it because it's so unbearably simple — the power of the word sorry; not nearly enough to quiet the voices in her head, but for her heart…maybe..

Tears start coming fast and hot, blurring her vision and running trails down the slope of her neck before she can wipe them from her cheeks. "Why tonight Matt?" She sniffles, "why all this tonight?"

His Adams apple rises and falls in his throat and he blinks too many times. "I don't know." 

"Okay?..."

_Okay_.

"So what?" She presses, the volume of her voice beginning to clash with the night, " _you_ were alone is that it? Is this some kind of, learn from me so you don't become me, life lesson?"

"Yeah," Matt agrees, "yeah I guess it is." 

"Yeah, well, too late."

"Karen…"

"No," she straightens so she can separate herself from him, "you don't get it do you?"

He turns away, frustrated.

"You can't protect people from everything all of the time, it's not your call, Matt. And you especially can't protect me from what's inside my own head. No one can do that."

He can't answer straight away, and when he does it's mousey quiet like maybe he's hoping she won't hear him at all.

"But you did," he says, "You and Foggy did — " Karen feels herself glare at him but he speaks before she can. "Anyway, it's not just about protecting you anymore, Karen. It's about…"

"— It's about what, Matt?"

His shoulders flinch and then deflate. "Thanking you, repairing some of the... I don't know. Something. I'm still figuring it out."

The longer she looks at him, soaks in his presence without the mask, without any of it, the more tempting it is. And like a flower that's drawn towards the heat and light of the sun, she's drawn to the darkness and torment that swirls inside of him. She always has been. More than anything she thinks it's because she understands it, maybe even finds a little comfort in it, and for the longest time she's been terrified to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror over her shoulder — scared of what it'll mean if she doesn't like what she sees. 

But here in the observant night, with all its intimacies and it's hushed whispers, there's nothing shiny and nothing perfect, and she's safe with him; reflections can't exist where the sun doesn't quite reach.

"I don't think either of us are qualified for this," Karen whispers and let's herself smile. 

"No," Matt agrees, and he smiles with her.

They sit there for a while, or it feels like a while anyway, but probably it's only a few minutes. Matt tips his head towards her, listening, and Karen watches him play with the tail end of his mask, weaving it in little zig zags between his fingers, back and forth, back and forth. It feels like she's interrupting a ritual when she slides her hand over his knuckles.

"I'll tell you, if I need you. Okay? But it's a two way thing." 

He nods and grips her fingers. "Okay. Okay.." and honestly, she doesn't know if she believes him but it's a start.

"Good."

"I should be going," he whispers, "it's pretty late. You should get some sleep."

Karen nods. She should get some sleep, she wishes she could. She follows him the short distance to the window and he lifts it with one arm and puts his foot on the sill. 

"Matt," she says, and before he can move any further she's wrapped her arms around him, fingers seeking the deep groove of his spine and the warmth of his chest.

 _God_ , she's missed him. 

"You're not the last," she breathes "what you said before." His arms squeeze back, tight and strong around her shoulders. "You're not the last person I want to talk to." She echos his words because she's not sure how else she can phrase it, sliding her hands up over slick fabric until she's clinging on the breadth of his back, holding on to as much of him as she can. "And I'll be okay. Okay?"

They're close enough for her to feel his heart beating against his chest but it doesn't mean all that much to her, not like it does him.

"Yeah. Yeah okay." 

Her head twists away and they separate, two different people now, different from before. The mask comes back down over his eyes but she barely even notices it.

"Goodnight, Karen." He says with affection, just before he's gone like shadow.

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Hold it for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to do a little bit of a comic book homage... Don't hate me 😭 I promise I'm being truthful with the tags though, and there will be something happy at the end ❤️

_Tonight, it's just how she remembers it._

_Red, red, everywhere she looks; columns of crimson like rising flames, closer to hell than anywhere she's been before, and yet, she's standing at the altar. There's this bottomless terror that takes flight in her chest when she watches Matt fight for her, watches him get knocked down, again and again until she meets the reaper with his glowing eyes._

_Dex in Matt's suit spits the Billy club from his hands like deadly venom, charged with impossible rage and fury, unstoppable it's motion, certain in its destination._

_Father Lantom isn't there this time, Karen suspects he's too old and too slow and time follows a path, linear with her death — she'd accepted it the moment she closed her eyes — now there's something wet and warm seeping out of her._

_The world spins on its axis and in a flash she's staring at the church ceiling, painting in the stars, cosmos fading in, and fading away, little flickers going off behind her eyes, synapses being snuffed out. She snatches maybe half a lungful of air before it cracks and bubbles in her chest like popcorn, escaping into the useless cavity of her body and doing no good there._

_But Matt's here. Matt's always here; his fingers are full of life against her clammy skin going cold, lifting her shoulders, tilting her head up to meet his face..._

"Karen."

_Beneath his mask he's begging, tears soaking through fabric as he pleads with his God —_

_A little late for all that now she thinks, but it's okay._

_Okay is what she tries to tell him but he won't listen, he never does...instead he utters a prayer that's more lost than any he's ever uttered before —_

_"No no no. Don't, don't, Karen please. Don't go, you can't go."_

_Then he stammers — and this is the part that hurts — "Not again."_

_Not again._

_But she can't do anything to stop what's coming, she supposes that's the beauty of the thing. The last of her is electric, a pulse through her fingers that's just enough to lift her hand to his face, smearing blood with her thumb all over his chin, a final sorry and a thank you — as liquid from inside her fills up her mouth, splutters out of her like a fountain._

_Looking at him through slitted eyes is bliss, with everything else disappearing, like a match held to the edges of her vision, and he's right here in the middle of it, the last of her to go — burning until it's black. until it's gone._

_"_ Karen _?"_

_But there's something peculiar about her name in this world, like it's really not from this world at all, And it takes a moment for her to realise she's hearing another voice, out here, alone on the ledge; one that's been registering in her ears and not inside her head._

Finally, she commands herself to do it, to shake herself free of her sleepy binds and open her eyes, frantic and wild, searching for the source of the sound as her body snaps straight like a rope holding back a gate in a gale, her feet walking a path up the bed until they're huddled up by the headboard.

The figure next to her is hunched and speaks softly — "Hey it's okay, it's okay," still there when she'd expected him to dissipate into streams of smoke through her fingers, but finding instead, a wall of solid muscle that barely moves when she pushes him — a concerned face that she recognises as the devil. 

"What the...what the _fuck_!?" She screams then, shunts backwards, her feet kicking at his legs.. "how did you — how did you get..?" She shuffles back even more. 

"I'm sorry Karen...you were.. I could hear you.."

"So you thought you'd just fucking break in and..? The fuck _Matt._ " A flash of memory comes back to her and her hand snaps to her chest like a magnet to something metal, feeling for something wet and warm and …. "You've been…" she swallows down hard, her voice full of accusation, "you've been coming here?"

"I've been worried."

"How long?" She spits.

Matt sighs and shakes his head. "Weeks."

_Weeks._

And worse, having him here is doing something to her; it's bringing everything to the surface like a bruise under a hot flannel — and even though all he's doing is sitting there, making a dent in the mattress where her waist was; she can't even look at him. 

She can't even look at him.

That's when his arms come towards her because she must look like a scared, wounded, animal right now —

Matt always was one for a lost cause.

But her lungs that are still working, still breathing at least for now can hurl nothing but bitterness — "No, no. Get away — don't — _don't_."

When he doesn't stop, she beats his chest with her fists, pounding limply onto muscle until he forces her so close that she can't anymore. The tears come so much more easily when she smells him, presses her face against him and his arms scoop her up and drag her in, her legs all tangled up in his lap. "I saw…. Matt, I saw…" she cries but he squeezes her tight and strokes her hair with a light, smoothing motion that causes her to shiver in his arms.

"Just a dream Karen. A nightmare."

"Maybe it should've been me, maybe it's not right that I —"

Matt sighs and it shakes her core, then mutters something under his breath; catches her in an even tighter embrace, rocks her slowly despite how her chest heaves in ugly little spurts against him.

"No," he says, simply, "no."

"But I don't even.." she protests, "what do I do with it? What do I even do with it, Matt. How do I —"

And somehow, even though the sporadic tears seem to be breaking all of her words into meaningless pieces, he understands. "Karen listen to me," Matt's serious now, not angry or sad, or bitter — just… serious. "Father Lantom saved you because it was the right thing," he says as he peels her head away from where she's wetting the skin of his neck, runs his thumb in a semi circle over her cheek to dry up some of the moisture there, "...he knows that I —" He hesitates.

"You would have died, Karen. And he would have won, Fisk would have won, and…"

"But Dex is still…"

"Yes but... we're gonna find him. And I need you to do that, don't I? Huh?" He picks up her chin under his fingers and she looks up into his face. "You're no good to me if you're — " his eyes flick downwards and his bottom lip trembles just enough to give him away. "You're so smart, Karen, so beau — and anyway, what would I do huh?" He laughs hollowly, "without you? I need you here with me. Keeping me in line, and all that stuff, yeah? You gotta help me."

Her breathing settles into a steady rhythm and she fiddles lightly with the collar of his shirt, his words saying one thing but the warm encompassing heat of his body saying another; I've got you.

 _I've got you_.

Eventually she finds herself nodding gently against his sweatshirt, the material doing little to soak away her tears or the snot from her face, instead it smears it around causing her to wipe it ungracefully on her wrist instead. It's definitely not the most romantic moment, far from it, actually, but it's too easy when she's this close not to plant the tiniest of kisses on the corner of his mouth.

She hears him inhale at the sensation, sees his eyes fall slowly shut as she curves a hand up into his hairline.

He tastes like salt — from her tears probably, and his body smells like the kind of crisp cold that drags itself in on your clothes, like a Central Park stroll on a frosty night, wooded and smokey with a tang of metal.

"Karen…" he protests softly as she sucks his bottom lip slightly into her mouth, moaning like it's too much. ,"Karen, not… You need to rest." He pulls away and rests against her forehead. "I'll stay with you. If you want." It feels like a compromise, but a good one.

She searches his face.

"Here?"

"Yeah," he answers with a nod, "right here."

* * *

The first thing she notices, apart from the fact it's morning, is the wall of black pressed to the end of her nose. 

Matt's wrapped around her like a blanket and she's breathing in the warm air circulating between their chests, her knees are tucked between his and his hand is resting softly at her waist, bleeding heat through her t-shirt. There's not enough space for her to glance down without moving but she can feel the rough fabric of his combat pants on her bare calves, feel the hem of his boots against her toes, muddy and all tangled up in her clean sheets, starkly black in contrast to the fresh white of the morning. 

Karen smiles and he notices her waking, swallowing against a dry throat with a grumble that vibrates her in ear. 

"Morning." 

She answers back with a "hey," and his hand moves to her shoulder to nestle in her hair, somewhere that feels less intimate before it can leak any more desire into her blood. 

She misses it already. 

"Feel better?" Matt asks and she nods, looking up to see his chin creased and his lips pouty. 

"I'm sorry." She whispers.

"About what?" He answers, her eyes flutter closed as his fingers comb back tattered strips of blonde away from her face. "I'm just glad you're okay," he says before she can respond. His smile is closed lipped and soft, like a line across his face that stretches and then shrinks and fades, his eyes are still glazed with sleep, slow blinking and welcoming. She doesn't know what else to do except snuggle right back into him, tighter than she was when she was sleeping, she wraps around his back and spreads her arms and — "Karen.." The discomfort in his voice makes her flinch…"can I… can I move my arm?" 

She lets out a guilty chuckle because of course he probably can't feel any of his fingers. "Sure, sorry yeah.. erm.."

"It's alright….just… " he slides his arm awkwardly out from under her and makes a loud groaning sound that lights a little fire at the base of her spine, and to Karen's surprise when he's done repositioning himself he pulls her back in under his arm instead of getting up. 

"Thanks," she half smiles, "for staying," Karen says eventually after finding a new ridge of muscle to rest her head against, "..and uh, thanks for uh,… for stalking me I guess?" She props herself up on her elbow and Matt chuckles. 

"I'm really sorry about that — "

"It's okay," she stops him from speaking with a thumb and finger poised under his chin, "you were looking out for me." She pauses just short of his face and he breathes out shakey _yes_ even though she didn't expect an answer.

Karen hesitates then, too busy thinking about the idea of it and not busy enough actually doing it — the story of their lives really —

"If I kiss you again," she whispers, "as a thank you...will you stop me this time?"

She watches as his mouth unsticks itself and he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, his eyes doing that thing they do when he's uncomfortable or unsure, swooping upwards before settling into their sightless gaze just shy of her lips. "I won't."

"Good," she says, biting her lip. She leans in and it's paralyzed at first; barely moving, he catches her hair just before it falls out from behind her ear, brushing it back and cupping her cheek.

Already she's shuffling on top of him, landing with her hips molding around his tight waist, shins tucked into his ribs. His mouth is scorching, his tongue delving deep between her lips as she tries to drag his shirt untucked, finding it still more than half pinned under the weight of his back. So she heaves his whole body upwards instead, moans as she finds herself rocking in his lap, whimpering as she grinds her hips in greedy circles and his big hands stretch out under her T-shirt, caress the tender skin of her stomach until his palms reach the buttery underside of her breasts.

Her T-shirt comes off in a flurry as she pulls his head to her center, tips back so he can suck in a sensitive nipple, can pinch it in his teeth just hard enough to make her whine. 

It's so _good_. 

And when he holds her and flips her on her back she knows what's coming — what has to be. And she knows he wants it too.

Above her, his face does this thing, she can't quite describe it, it flickers between innocent and something far, far darker that she thinks likes more.

"It's been a while," he pants, his lips curling, though he's breathing heavily, nervous probably — so is she.

"Yeah," she licks her lips, "yeah, me too."

"We don't have to…" 

"No, I…" she almost has to laugh, "no, I want to. I really want to, Matt." 

Karen gives him a fevered nod as he slides his hand down over her hips, palms the over spill of her ass, wishing only they could already be naked, that they could just skip to the part where he's inside her. But they have to help each other get there first. So her hands pry open his belt; unstick his shirt from his abs until it's bunched up under his armpits and he finally, _finally_ between busy hands, slips it off over his head, leaving his hair in a fluffy mess.

"Karen, you're..," his voice gets lost for a moment like it did last night, just a drop in the ocean against the expanse of her skin. "you're...so wet," he hasn't even touched her yet, he just _knows_.

His torso is a cut up patchwork of scars, even more beautiful when his bruised knuckles wrap around his cock as she pushes his pants down over his hips with her feet. Then he lets her take over; whimpering as he jerks forward into her palm, velvety-thick and hard in her delicate hands. 

"Please, Matt," she begs him, guiding him downwards through her slick folds and tilting her hips up; pressing him against her entrance. Matt can't resist — he can't. He falls forward and she paws at the flesh of his ass, slips him into her with a full stretch that makes her gasp, makes him lean against her collarbone with a growl that quivers, crushes his face to her skin as he rucks up against her, slowly — exploring deeper, deeper. And she seeks his mouth again for the messy, breathless movements of his tongue and clashes of their teeth that arch her even closer to him.

It's difficult to describe how having him inside her makes her feel, all the stuff she hated about him that suddenly doesn't matter anymore. More than anything, she hates that he gets to see her like this, and that she wants him to — tears aren't really what she signed up for, not right now, anyway — pathetic and unwanted, squeezing themselves out from behind her closed eyelids and threatening to roll with abandon down her cheeks. 

"Do you want me to stop?" He asks and she shakes her head; makes a sound that means no. _No,_ keep going.

God.

Keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing.

Because she's already embarrassingly close, there's a vortex of heat swirling at her center and tingling in her lower belly, and when she meets his eyes, and he meets hers back in his own way, he smiles just for a brief moment, such rich expression behind unchanging pupils, wide to sound of her pleasure quickening. 

"Matt… _Matt.."_

Then there's a thrust that makes the bed shake, "y _es_ ," she commands him with a ragged moan and stretches her arms up above her, basks in the high him fucking her faster and looser; naked except for the pants and boots that are still shackling him from the knees down. 

He pins her wrists, breathing through a little gap in his teeth, chasing shivers over the slope of her neck until his tongue caresses the sensitive spot behind her ear and he takes a deep, needy mouthful of the beat of her pulse under his swollen lips. 

"Karen.." he murmurs, aching and desperate "Karen, sweeth… fu — _God_ — I'm —" He grunts loudly. 

"Let go, Matt," Karen's voice pleads, closing her eyes as he forces her over the edge; losing himself in a cry that merges with hers so perfectly, so in sync, that she thinks there's not a dream in the entire world that could rival it.

* * *

Matt takes awful long showers — that's a new thing she's learning about him — long enough for her to prepare breakfast and tidy up a bit... then tidy up a bit some more.

Eventually he emerges with a casual —" Smells good in here." Like this isn't the first time they've done this, and Karen's ears prick up to the sound of his bare feet pattering across her kitchen floor.

She lets him get close before she turns to see him still damp with a towel clinched low around his waist. 

"Does it?" She replies, spinning quickly to hold him hostage between the plate of pancakes now balanced between their bodies, a little piece already cut up and dipped in syrup on the end of her fork. She twizzles it and bumps it against his lips, forcing him to open his mouth. "It's a family favourite," she says, and Matt pauses before chewing, making a low mmf sound followed by a smile that makes her heart flutter against her chest.

"Wow."

"Right?" She bites her lip smugly, because judging by what she now knows about Matt's face and pleasure; if sex was a 10 — than pancakes were surely a solid 7. "Anything with carbs, you can guarantee there's an old family recipe."

"Well I'm not complaining," Matt says, bowing slightly to capture her lips in a sensuous kiss. She grins, only moments away from removing his towel altogether before she catches how his scars shine in the harsh daylight and sighs a little resentfully.

"Asshole put a pair of scissors in you." Her fingers trace over the mark on his left shoulder and Matt laughs. 

"Yeah, yeah that was pretty assholish." 

" _Very_ , assholish," she adds. "I suppose it's a good job you wear them so well."

"Oh yeah?" He raises his eyebrows.

"Mm-hm," she stuffs a mouthful of pancake into her mouth, "do you not want breakfast?"

"I do," he hums, his expression meaning something totally different than pancakes. "But uh, I was thinking…" his eyes turn hooded, "that maybe I've figured out how we can help stop your nightmares.." he kisses her again, slides his hands behind her legs and pops her up onto the kitchen table "you see, I uh...I think maybe.. I just have to… _tire you out."_

Karen smiles and exhales a long breath, moves a damp strand of hair away from his eyes and pulls him between her legs.

His towel — her towel — drops with a sodden slap around his ankles. "Well, uh, it's a little unorthodox," she says, "probably not recommended... " She presses her lips to his, "but suppose that'll just have to do, for now, Murdock."

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, see! Pancakes equals happiness! 😂


End file.
